And Today We Have Naming of Parts
by caffinebunny
Summary: How Eliot Spencer became Eliot Spencer


Title: And Today We Have Naming of Parts

Author: medjai_trowa

Beta: Janet/Lynn

Notes: From amara_m's prompt over at comment_fic: SPN/Leverage, John, wee!Sam, wee!Dean, wee!Eliot, John comes across a young Eliot Spencer

Notes 2: Title is from "Naming of Parts" by Henry Reed

Notes 3: Can't remember if John's parents were ever named so liberties have been taken.

Summary: How Eliot Spencer became Eliot Spencer

*****

When he first glimpses the boy, he thinks he's about Dean's age – but skinny with it. His shirt is baggy, the neckline gaping and showing off one protuberant collarbone, made even more obvious by the line of bruising just below it.

His eye caught, John studies the boy more closely.

Not as young as he had first thought after all, he realises; perhaps a couple of years older than Dean.

The boy sees him looking and visibly flinches, but the only way out of the diner is past him so the kid stays where he is at the end of the counter, glass of water in front of him. He's turned back to his coffee and waved the waitress over when the door to the ladies' squeaks open and a girl just a little older than Sammy hurries to the boy's side and John sighs.

"How much for two kids' plates?" he asks, gesturing at the pair and the woman smiles, telling him to put his money away as she refills his coffee.

He nods to her as Dean drags a squalling Sammy in from the playground and makes him sit next to John as he pushes their milkshakes across to them distractedly, watching while the woman behind the counter hands two plates to the kids.

"But," he hears the boy protest, sounding oddly like Dean at his most stubborn. "We can't pay for that."

*****

The waitress has apparently explained that John had paid for the two meals, even though she wouldn't let him, but she's apparently relying on the fact that the food is officially already paid for to get the children to eat. The boy eyes it suspiciously, but the little girl falls on it like a ravening wolf and John has to smile.

Just like Sammy.

He shakes his head and turns back to his coffee, not looking at the children.

Just like how his grandfather taught him to tickle trout – well, the local equivalent at least. 'Here, fishy fishy, fishy', he thinks and he's rewarded soon after with the clink of china on the counter next to him. "Thanks, mister," the boy says quietly as he helps the girl up onto a stool first and then positions himself between her and John.

John nods in acceptance without turning and gestures for another milkshake for Dean, who is making a noise like a Hoover in a pond with the remains of his, and a refill for his own coffee. Sammy has fallen asleep on his book on the counter, which means another half hour trying to find where the boy has stashed his flashlight this time, but less to deal with right now. Dean is eyeing the other two children suspiciously, relaxing only when he apparently realises that the pair are in trouble of some kind and need help.

"Want a drink kid?" he asks, seeing the girl eyeing Dean's milkshake with big eyes.

The boy goes to open his mouth, but the girl is chirruping a yes before he can speak. The boy turns to her, but takes one look at her bright expression and his narrow shoulders sag with resignation. They sag further as John orders him a milkshake too, casting more suspicious glances his way and something clicks in John's mind as he realises just _why_ the boy came over.

So they've been on the road a while, and haven't had a good time of things.

Or at least, the boy hasn't. He's apparently been shielding his little sister from the worst of life on the streets. He glances at Dean, who shrugs and eyes Sammy's milkshake speculatively.

John shrugs back, amused – if he can pry it from the sleeping boy's fingers, it's his. If he can stand the howling from Sammy when he finds his milkshake gone.

Dean apparently decides that a milkshake isn't worth the aggravation and drops his chin onto his palms while John glances at the door as the bell over it rings signalling its opening.

Cops, he notes, but they're just passing through and they've paid cash for everything here and he relaxes. They're not looking for him.

The boy next to him doesn't relax.

"Dean, Eliot," he says, addressing the boy with his own father's name, "Take your sister and wash up. You're not getting back in the car with sticky hands."

He hears the rustle of paper behind him as something is checked, but the three children hurry for the bathroom before anyone speaks.

One of the cops settles in 'Eliot''s vacated seat and hands John a sheet of paper. "We're looking for two kids, mister...?"

"Spencer," John tells him. "John Spencer. And I got four of 'em all to myself, so if you'd take this one and maybe one of the other boys, I'd be mighty grateful."

The cop laughs, but sobers quickly. "Two runaways from a couple of counties over," he tells John. "Not the greatest home situation, but it was their mom reported it. She says her husband's moved out."

John nods and gestures for the paper, looking it over carefully. It's an old picture of the two kids. A couple of years, not the few weeks they've likely been gone from home. Almost like their mom doesn't want them to come back. Almost like she was forced into saying her husband was gone.

Almost like she was protecting her kids.

"Bit younger than mine, officer," he tells the man as the trio re-emerge from the bathroom, the two boys having traded shirts, something which goes unnoticed with their similarly coloured, equally short hair and the two officers having only caught the briefest of glances of them as they hurried off.

The girl is holding both their hands – and how Dean managed to get the other boy to allow that, he doesn't know, but the boy was always blessed with his mother's charm.

With a nod to the officers, he throws the room key to 'Eliot' and jerks his head at the door. "Okay kids, showers, then bed-time. We've got an early start tomorrow. You'll excuse us, officers?" he asks as he scoops Sam up and leaves enough cash for the meals and drinks as well as a generous tip on the counter. "I've got to find the flashlight this one's been using to stay up reading 'til all hours."

The cop who up until then had been silent laughed at that, and confessed that his middle one did that far too often as he held the door for John and waved cheerfully.

*****

John calls the front desk and asks for extra sheets to make up a bed on the sofa for the little girl. He hadn't even checked the kids' names on the poster he had been shown and had been calling her Emily – Molly – in his head after his own mother, just as Dean is named for Mary's mother. He rummages in his own duffle for a shirt the girl can use as a night-dress and hands it to her, herding her into the bathroom and pulling the door shut.

Clothes, he thinks. He supposes they can share Dean and Sammy's stuff for now. Dean's already helping the boy find something to change into for overnight, occasionally casting glances at John. But he can't dress a little girl in boys' clothes the whole time, so he's going to need to find a poker game somewhere.

But not tonight.

Tonight is the time to let two plainly exhausted children get some rest.

He glances at Sammy, who is curled up under the covers in John's bed.

And find that damn flashlight before Sammy stashes it in his duffle again.

*****

When Nate walks into his apartment, he's surprised to find Eliot sitting on the couch in the dark with a bottle of scotch at his side, a small glass sitting next to it on the table. With a sigh, he drops into one of the chairs and stares at Eliot until he looks up.

"Everything okay?" he asks as Eliot focuses on him and the younger man shrugs.

"Remembering," he says softly.

Nate thinks that's all he's going to get until Eliot leans over and hands him a tattered, dog-eared photograph. Four kids, three boys and a girl, with an older, bearded man. He flips it, seeing the indentations on the photo from the writing and reads the inscription: "Dad, Dean, Sammy, Eliot and Molly. June 1991" and turns curious eyes on Eliot.

"Not my dad," he said softly. "Not really. Spent three years with them though."

Nate smiles.


End file.
